


Language Lessons, 10: hingonna wellendam cor cottonwat geah par wardenda netta (1200 words)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [10]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-12
Updated: 2005-05-12
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 10: hingonna wellendam cor cottonwat geah par wardenda netta (1200 words)

  
  
Three days without Shaftoe, and Jack phant'sied he'd stumbled on a world without a North, without any compass point or fix'd direction: never mind that the sun heaved itself wearily, again and again, over the sea from thataway, or traversed its toilsome high-road through the heavens 'til it sank into the other side of the world, its light no earthly use to Jack Sparrow since it did not show him what he sought; oh, his mazy brain insisted time and again that _that_ bright-haired _ferang_ , or _that_ strong soldierly figure on the shore, was Shaftoe returned at last; neither his sharp eyes nor his fresh-polished glass could pick out Shaftoe in the quayside crowd, though Jack would've sworn that he'd recognise Shaftoe in an instant, be there never so many nameless faceless folk thronging (and who could blame 'em?) 'round him; and moment by moment, here on the sun-hammered black deck of his precious ship, Jack began to know that, though his heart and head sought to show him Shaftoe, shaping him from dazzle and glimmer and shadow, the man himself was gone, was lost, had not returned as he'd promised: Jack'd thought himself beyond doubting Jack Shaftoe, who'd come so very far in the turbulent months since they'd met; halfway and more around the whole wide rounded reeling globe, and 'til now never more than hailing-distance from Jack himself -- and often (Jack ached already with the lack of it) very much closer than that -- but far, too, from the man who'd woken, cursing inventively, on the deck of the notorious _Black Pearl_ as, bare-masted and well-manned, she'd swept down London River and away into the world, leaving behind those dens of delightful iniquity from which Jack'd plucked this diamond in the rough (the mere coupling of 'Shaftoe' and 'rough' in Jack's thoughts brought him a welcome shiver of happy lust, chased all too soon with a kick of melancholy and bitter loss) and taken him for his own; aye, Jack Shaftoe had been his all right, and Jack had given himself most eagerly in return -- no, don't think on all that hot and gaspy give-and-take now, Jack, for it's torture -- to Shaftoe, in a marvellously tangled whorl of lust and admiration, and even some more _tender_ sentiments (though Jack did not care to brood on those at this time); half a year, half the world, ago, he might've imagined that Shaftoe, free to come and go as he list, would go and not come back, but lately Jack'd been so very sure of him: and yet Shaftoe was gone, was lost, was lying dead or maimed or chained or sick to death, and Jack could only fret and pace and snap at all his crew, and send platoons of native kids to ferret out the tall blond Englishman and bring him hither; and there, there! on the quay, was a gaggle of skinny brown brats, tugging eagerly at the tanned hands of a big Frankish-seeming fellow: Jack's heart leapt, and lurched ... then plummetted straight down to Hell, for 'twas not his Jack, but some stray soldier or pox-racked sailor, gawping up at the _Pearl_ from the wooden pier as though (quite probable, really) he'd never seen her match; Jack sighed, and took a soothing draught of rum, and thought that after all it'd do no harm to ask, and p'rhaps this bloke would have some clew as to Mr Jack Shaftoe's likely whereabouts; he beckoned the man aboard, and scattered a handful of clipped coins to the boys who'd lured him here, and had Stone -- all grumbly, like the rest of 'em, at staying so long in this pricy and fly-blown port -- bring small beer; "Well, sir," he said, once they were settled underneath the awning, "my friend, my _particular_ friend, has taken himself off on some great Venture and has gone astray; perhaps a man of standing like yourself would know where he might be?" and waited expectantly, tamping down hope at the fellow's gap-toothed grin; tamping down considerable impatience when that antique mouth opened more widely, and emitted only nonsense; Jack, who liked to think of himself as a talented linguist (and hadn't Shaftoe, oh Shaftoe, complimented his tongue?), cocked an ear and begged the fellow to repeat his words, all slow and careful, so that Jack might tease some meaning out of 'em; surely this fellow was English, or had been so once, and 'twas only fair that he should retain some few shored fragments of his native language -- in which case, as Jack earnestly attempted to convey with various non-verbal cues, perhaps he'd be so kind as to _utilise_ 'em, instead of gibbering in that mump-mouthed native zargon -- but it seemed he could say only, " **hingonna wellendam cor cottonwat geah par wardenda netta** ", looking at Jack encouragingly as though the words might actually _mean_ something; Jack, struck -- aha! -- by inspiration, parrotted it back as well as he could, eyebrows raised so far he could feel his eyes pop, projecting polite enquiry from every pore and wondering whether his remarkable forbearance was in any way justified; and then the bloke, cackling, produced another string of random syllables that Jack, after no more than a single reprise, recognised as _English_ , albeit with a stiffly quaint flavour; "a Vagabond and a Trader cannot be lost, sir," he asserted, "for they are never out of their way; 'tis a saying they have here, and a comforting meditation while you wait;" and p'rhaps it was the rum, or the midday sun, or the wakeful night just past, but Jack wanted to cry out that he was neither Vagabond nor Trader, for _he_ was lost without Jack Shaftoe; 'twould've been demeaning to admit it, though, and anyway the ancient mariner was recounting a tale of some trading-post a day's march inland, where the country folk bartered treasures from the olden days for iron, or steel, or commonplace goods; Jack frowned, for he couldn't see Shaftoe bartering anything at all -- though, wait, had there not been rather fewer small, portable items lying around in their cabin of late? -- and surely Shaftoe's Vagabond days were behind him, supplanted by this wand'ring life they led, the two of 'em fixed points -- nay, _one_ fixed point, halfway 'twixt Jack and Jack -- amid the world's wide ocean's rolling waves: and with a sudden prickling certainty he _knew_ , even as Stone, pointing, cried out "Captain!", that Jack Shaftoe would be drawn back, would return in triumph bearing riches; could not be lost, no more than 'here' or 'self' or 'heart' could be mislaid; Jack beamed at his wizened guest, who was rambling on about some interminable trek through enemy territory (everything so much more complicated and difficult, ashore; Jack'd none of it) and stood to greet sunburnt, staggering, heavy-laden Jack Shaftoe as he stumbled up the gangplank, coming straight to Jack Sparrow, coming up close and sweaty and alive and saying "Did you miss me, then?"; and Jack leaned t'wards him, simply to feel Shaftoe _there_ like North, and said blithely, "Why, Jack, have you been away?"

Dedicated to my darling co-author, for discovering [Mr Knox](http://lakdiva.org/knox/p3_c09.html#d0e12206) \-- who makes a guest appearance herein -- and Thomas Plume.  



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